Postcards
by Broken-Latin
Summary: John receives strange postcards in the mail from a mystery sender. Post-Reichenbach. Johnlock.


Postcards

"You've got mail, love." Mrs. Hudson entered the room, catching John's eye. She placed the pile of envelopes in front of him and pat John on the back. "I'm sorry, dear. I know it's hard on you. Just try to perk up a bit.

John sighed and looked up at the woman. "I'm trying my best. Really." He gave the best half-hearted smile he could manage. Mrs. Hudson just gave him a small hug before leaving.

He didn't want to open ail. He didn't want to do anything, actually. But John forced himself to go through it. A phone bill, a letter from Harry, the usual stuff. But a cardstock piece caught his attention. A postcard from New York City. John frowned, confused. He didn't know anyone in America, save for one or two people from the army, but they didn't live in New York, nor did they have his Baker Street address. Perhaps it was sent by mistake. He turned it over, finding nothing where the note from the sender should have been.

Almost a month later, there was another postcard. This time the picture depicted a desert, the word _Afghanistan_ written under it. On the other side there was a smiley face sticker with an army helmet, something for primary school students.

Was this mere coincidence? Or was someone messing with him? John didn't know. He just sat it down on the coffee table with the one from New York.

Two weeks later, a picture of Saint Basil's Cathedral in the Russian Kremlin appeared. The other side had a red star sticker. Typed words said _They're not communist anymore, John._

John squinted his eyes. Someone was definitely messing with him. They knew his name. But who could it be? A chill ran down his spine. Moriarty? He pushed that thought aside and tossed the postcard with the others.

In the following weeks he received more and more of the cards. Most were blank on the back though one or two included typed notes—never handwritten ones. Ukraine, Poland, Germany, and France had all come.

His sender was getting closer to him with every card. How long would it be until Moriarty was knocking at his door?

Jon leaned back, going through them once again as the fire crackled. A noise caught his attention and his eyes flew to the door. The stairs had creaked. He watched for a moment, and found himself quite surprised when a piece of paper appeared from under the door.

Slowly and cautiously, he walked toward it, picking the paper up. Upon examination, he found that it was a postcard. This time it was London. John flipped it over.

The handwriting was most definitely not Moriarty's. _I'm home, John_. His heart pounded like a war drum as he reached for the doorknob, body shaking.

Sherlock stood there with a smile. Not a 'ha-ha, I'm smarter than you' smile, but a genuine 'I'm glad to see you' smile. "I'm home."

John could believe neither his eyes nor his ears. Was this possible? How could this be? His trembling slowed as he reached a hand toward him. Could this be a hallucination? John's hand rested on Sherlock's warm cheek. Sherlock's own hand met hit, holding it there.

"Did you enjoy my game?"

The doctor thought. He had grown to look forward to the cards, though he hadn't necessarily enjoyed the anxiety that came with thinking it was Moriarty. "Not nearly as much as I enjoy you being here." He pulled Sherlock into the flat and sat him down. He rushed about the kitchen, fetching teacups and putting on the kettle. "It's been so long."

"One year, John." He took the tea John offered him. "One year is nothing."

"It isn't nothing, Sherlock. A year without you is longer than a lifetime with."

Sherlock laughed lightly. "You sound like some kind of poetic lover."

John paused. He did love Sherlock. Of course, he'd never told the man, but he knew that he'd deduced it. "Is something wrong with that?"

"You aren't my lover."

"No, I suppose I'm not." He was quiet for a moment, feeling his face grow hot. He ignored the sensation and gathered a bit of courage. "But I'd like to be."

Sherlock looked shocked. "John, use your brain. I don't know how to love."

John was not about to let the conversation fall or change the subject. Not when he'd just said aloud the words he'd always feared speaking. "I'll teach you."

The consulting detective smiled, nodding. "I'm sure you will." He motioned for John to curl into the chair with him. There really wasn't enough room, and John ended up practically straddling the man. But neither party minded. He was there, with Sherlock. The moment was perfect.

The scent of tea and postcards sent John into a peaceful sleep, grasping Sherlock's hand as he dreamed.

.

A/N:

This is what happens when I get bored in science. Always bored in science. I know Bernoulli's principal by heart. I mean, my ancestor (Leonhard Euler the Awesome) helped him with it. I know this stuff! Anywho, I hope you enjoyed this! The fluff phase is lasting longer than usual. It's coming to an end, though I feel it.

_The author of this fic is not to be held accountable for any nosebleeds, feels, or fangirl squealing that may result of this story._


End file.
